The clock ticks. No nowadays those pointed arrows
Those clock hands no longer exist.
The numbers roll, flicker imperceptively fast
From 3.15 to 3.16 am. Who knew.
That it would be 2011 and you would be sitting
Starkly alone in that room, in that house.
That same house you were sitting in 10 years ago.
Life rolls, you know, like twenty-six onto twenty-seven.
Just a little closer to heaven.
Like a flip clock counting milliseconds – the tags falling
Fast like a carder flipping a deck.
Hey you know what? What? This life, this one
Here, here this one, feel your finger jabbing my chest,
This one here, in reality, is alive.
But not for long. Twenty-four years. Twenty-three.
No, the plane will crash, no, the cars will crash. He said.
The statistics said. The doctors warned so.
The AMIs and cinomas will do it. They do.
Bye, I said. I have said my dues, I have.
Last word to go, in case I forget, is bye.
I know I have said lots of words before, to you,
But you know, you know, I believed them,
Sincerely. I guess there isnt time to wait
I’m glad I lived. Yeah sure. I’m glad
I lived without fearing that I will eventually die,
That the oceans will wash away my castles in the sand,
That the winds will blow away the rest.
I was happy some, happy more.
I was sad some, and then more.
Hello, but perhaps I should have said
Hello earlier, for it is already time
p.s. maybe i just write for myself. since i don’t really know who is left to listen, or better yet, reply.
Imagine, me, sitting on the steps in front of the UOB building in front of the obese Botero bird, looking at the clock tower, the black river filling the frame of my vision, the muted crowds drifting down the paths, pen and notebook proped on my knees, head bent down writing, as you walk towards me.
Imagine, me, lying on my side on the bed, looking at the ticking of numbers on the phone, on the laptop, mind somewhere else.
Imagine, me, standing in front of my door, opening up my birthday card, lost for a moment in the swirl of digits forgetting to unlock the door.
Go read it again.
Something only feels real when you have walked away from it, hid from it, lost a drop of water in an ocean, and come home and found it again. Something is only real when no matter how much you say no, it is still there, not because you say yes so fervently that it is there. I can create worlds, people, thoughts, ideas, dreams, stories in my mind. Lines after lines after lines of stories. But they are not real. I can believe everything I want to believe in my dreams. But they are not real. I can say everything I want to say, I can say everything I don’t want to say, I can not say everything I don’t want to say, but in the end I let my actions show me what is me. And that is the most real.
I ought to split these into separate posts/poems.
I will write something happier soon, just to balance it out.